Tropelock
by I'm Nova
Summary: This month the johnlock trope challenge on Tumblr offers a prompt a day. These are my responses. Rating because I want not to worry about what might come.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: nothing mine, BBC and Conan Doyle have all the rights._

_A.N. Entry for the Johnlock trope challenge, Unconscious love confession. 221B since I saw the challenge at 10:30PM. Hopefully it'll meet the requirements._

You give me fever

If Sherlock would only follow John's suggestions, or common sense, he wouldn't go on cases when he's already half-feverish. (John probably brought the flu virus home, and feels mildly guilty about it.) And certainly, he wouldn't push himself.

Since John has been banned from this case on account of mother-henning (he shouldn't have heeded Sherlock's ban, but he can tolerate only so many insults), it's really no surprise that Sherlock gets brought home by Lestrade – after having apprehended his criminal – with a fever so high he's practically delirious with it.

John is trying to maneuver Sherlock into bed, when his flatmate seems to register his presence. At least he thinks, because Sherlock calls his name a few times. He still seems out of it, though.

"You're my error, John," Sherlock mumbles. John is shocked, because what is it Sherlock deems an error? Associating with him? Being flatmates? Being friends? All of the above?

"Error?" he echoes, somewhat shakily.

" ' Course," Sherlock mumbles, "human error, John. Love."

Oh, so Sherlock doesn't regret ever meeting John. ...He loves John?

"You love me?" the doctor queries.

"Lots. Can we kiss?"

"When you're better."_ And you'll remember this happening and I can get the confirmation that it's to me and not some John from secondary school that you're talking in your brain. _


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: BBC and Conan Doyle share the characters I play with them. _

_A.N. Today's trope – it's love, not pity. Bit of teenlock, I hope you enjoy. _

Why?

It had taken him a shamefully long time to find an answer – a long time to start questioning it, even, because it was simply too good to risk ruining it – but now Sherlock knew. Why would John be his friend when all the others called him freak, acted like he had the plague and generally hated him? He didn't like the answer he found, but – it made sense.

And now his own over-inquisitive brain had soured their relationship beyond remedy for him, like Sherlock knew it would, but he just couldn't help himself.

So, when John came by in the afternoon – as usual – asking what Sherlock had planned for the day, he'd bitterly answered, "You don't have to be my friend anymore. I'd really rather you didn't."

"Why?" John had whined, wounded. "What did I do now?"

"I'm not one of your strays, wounded birds, or some such. No matter your ambitions in the medical field, you don't need to be my friend out of pity. Yes, I wouldn't have anyone else. But your Florence Nightingale instincts needn't extend so far."

"What?" John uttered, dumbfounded.

"You know that I don't like to repeat myself," the raven haired stated haughtily.

"Who told you that we're friends because I pity you? Mycroft?" John asked, incensed.

"No one. But it's the only thing that makes sense, since you can make friends with everyone you want and I'm...well, me. I get us in trouble, I am rude...don't make me say what you know," Sherlock replied, awkward.

"You want to know why we're friends? Fine. I didn't mean to tell you so soon..." John said.

_Oh. Perhaps it was a bet, after all. But a really hefty sum must be involved, to make him stick till now, _Sherlock thought.

"...but when you're so daft I have no other choice. I love you, you amazing idiot, and I'd give anything for the privilege to be by your side," the blond concluded.

Sherlock blinked. And blinked. And blinked some more.

"Sherlock? I've not broken you, have I?" John queried, growing concerned.

"This doesn't make sense," his friend eventually replied.

"Since when love does?" John countered cheekily. "Look, I'm not asking you to reciprocate, just... let me be around. Please."

"But can I?" Sherlock asked.

"What?"

"Reciprocate. Can I? If I want?" he explained, sounding unreasonably unsure.

"God yes!"


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: nothing mine._

_A.N. Today's trope is Secret Admirer. I know this is the Johnlock trope challenge, but Jim was so insistent. I couldn't say no to him. :-) 221B again._

It's a matter of style

It wasn't fair. Jim came first. He'd noticed Sherlock in Uni, when he was universally hated and unspeakably bored – and immeasurably gorgeous. Before he'd become a consulting detective, Jim had already felt that Sherly was a kindred soul. And since he was the only one, it meant they were soulmates, surely.

Jim hadn't come onto him right then. Nothing so ordinary. So _vulgar_. He'd left crime scenes for Sherlock to come across. Games. Puzzles. Surely Sherlock would have liked that better.

And he had, oh if he had found his life calling. Started a career. That meant that he had started to solve other people's crimes, but he still liked Jim's best of all. It had been a drawn out courtship worthy of a XIXth century romance – not that Sherlock knew. But he still felt the homage in his magnificent crimes, Jim was sure.

And when he'd come out to Hope – the opening gambit for an actual approach, _finally_ – John Watson dared to come between them. Sherlock had taken to him so quickly. It was obvious that he was fond of his flatmate. Too fond. Just a bit more and he'd be pining after him like a lovesick teen fond. Measures had to be taken. Jim couldn't allow his Sherlock to turn into an ordinary bloke.


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer: I own nothing. _

_A.N. Trope is Demon/Angel AU. Love this, hope I do it justice. In this AU, Mary never existed...and probably neither did John's girlfriends. Think Granada-style flat sharing in 21__th __century until differently stated._

Falling for each other

For all he'd be ready to swear on it, and be perfectly honest, Sherlock has never been alone in his life. Everyone, after all, has a guardian angel, and the Holmes boys are surely no exception. Someone was there, smiling, when he played pirates with Redbeard. He was there when Sherlock fell from a tree – and managed to ensure he suffered only a clean break on his right wrist instead of falling head first and risking damage to the brain. No matter how much the eldest Holmes brother has decided to shoulder the angel's own responsibilities, being Sherlock's guardian is hard work. His charge has always been reckless, and growing up he doesn't calm down at all. Just securing that he will endure no permanent damage is a taxing, almost continuous job.

Of course, living over Sherlock's shoulder has its perks, too. He's, after all, the most wonderful human being to ever be born. Yeah, yeah, every angel thinks that about his charge. But John – because _of course _Sherlock's guardian angel is the one who will later be known as John Watson, MD – feels entitled to say it more than most angels. Sherlock has not only the potentiality to become a great man. He's a honestly, utterly good kid, if a bit socially awkward. But society thrives on lies – white, kind lies often – and Sherlock reveres and loves truth too much to adhere to the world's hypocrisy.

With time, though, being permanently by Sherlock's side as – mostly – an observer becomes more and more heartbreaking. It isn't just that John has to be a witness to Sherlock losing so many things. His trust. His health, chasing after drugs. His faith, because no benevolent intelligence would allow such gratuitous evil as Sherlock repeatedly stumbles upon to happen (the consequences of free will and demons' influence can be hard to stomach). What makes John almost – _almost – _despair is knowing that it would be so easy to save Sherlock from so many losses. From slipping inside a dark-tinted world. He only needs someone. An anchor.. a promise that things will get better that he could actually confide in.

John yearns to be that someone. To manifest and give him hope. But angelic apparitions are under strict rules and being a lonely, desperate junkie does not warrant one. John can feel the regulations like chains binding him, and he chafes against them. Sherlock just needs someone damn it!

After the third overdose where Mycroft and he manage to save Sherlock's life somehow, John does what he would have sworn he'd never do. He falls. He trades his wings and most of his powers for a human identity. He's warned, though. He'll have to pay for his sin with a degree of separation from his Sherlock. He will always have an empathic link with Sherlock, but they won't share every waking or sleeping second anymore. For one, it'd be beyond creepy.

John's actual presence as a stalwart friend makes Sherlock bloom. There's no other word for it. It was that easy to heal him, just as John had always known. It's the start of a blissful time. Sherlock is the happiest he's been in decades, and that is all John has ever wished. He needs nothing more. When Sherlock tells John that he's in love with him, the doctor swears that he's been admitted back into heaven, only better.

But then John has to pay for his sin. He thought a few hours of separation a day was hard enough. The Fall (Sherlock's Fall) would crush him into nothingness if the link wasn't there to assure him that this is only a ploy. (And Bast's – Moriarty's pet demon – way to mock him. Of course there's that too.)

Being unable to simply _be there _for Sherlock for the following two years (730 days, 17520 hours, 1051200 minutes, 63072000 seconds) is nothing short of torture. But Sherlock is alive, and John believes in him. Sherlock wouldn't willingly forsake him forever. He wouldn't. He'll find his way back to him.

John doesn't join Anderson's little club. One – it's ridiculous, and two – he has his certainty but no theories about the how, only a serious hunch about who is involved. He just waits, and tries to manage the burning itch to _do something _each time the link reverberates pain. It's like when he was an angel, only so much worse, because the link isn't even detailed enough to let him know what's happening to his Sherlock.

Thank God, Sherlock comes back in the end, as John knew he would have. (He'll always remember that particular instance's glorious kiss.) And John will be thrice damned if he lets them be separated anymore.


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer: nothing mine. _

_A.N. Prompt was Spin the bottle. Which of course meant more teenlock. Enjoy!_

Game of chance

Like with many other ill-advised ideas, Jim was the one to suggest it. It should have been enough not to go through with that. Not that Sherlock being at that party in the first place was a brilliant idea, but John had insisted and Sherlock was terribly weak against that particular pleading look. After all, John had pointed out that everyone would be there – Irene (as if that would sway Sherlock), Molly, Gavin, Mike, Mary, Janine, and so on and so forth.

Sherlock had caved in and come, and while he hadn't been exactly enjoying himself, watching John have fun was almost as good. Even if it forced him to ruthlessly squash down the unreasonable bite of jealousy more than once.

Until Jim (how Sherlock loathed him) had suggested a game of spin the bottle, Irene had hurriedly seconded, everyone else had agreed – and Janine had told Sherlock flatly that he couldn't beg off. He'd looked at John for help, but his friend's only comment had been, "Come on! It'll be fun!"

Sherlock disagreed vehemently – but he didn't voice it. Physical contact with half-drunk people that he didn't even like would most definitely not be enjoyable. Not that he wasn't tipsy himself – he needed to survive the party, and clear-headed was not the way to do it.

While the game went on, he had to suffer through Molly's shy, red-faced peck (it could have been so much worse, he knew it) and Janine's playful nipping approach (she should look up kiss in a dictionary). Much worse, he had to see John get seven kisses (was John cheating? How could he attract the bottle?) without being able to stop it from happening.

Then, the impossible – well, improbable – happened. John spun (was it his turn already? Again?) and the bottle turned in an almost complete circle...stopping on Sherlock right by his side. John blushed worse than Molly and fidgeted, ill at ease. Of course. He didn't want to kiss Sherlock. He wasn't gay. Sherlock's heart still skipped several beats.

"What are you waiting for, John?" Mary – who got her taste of John earlier – teased.

"There will be consequences if you chicken out now," Irene added.

Sherlock didn't know if he should be grateful to them, or if he hated them for pushing John into something he clearly didn't want.

John decided that it was better to get it done and over with, so he turned his head towards Sherlock and – very gently and softly – kissed him. It was over in an instant, but still Sherlock gasped into the kiss. He knew he would never live that down, but he couldn't really help himself.

Mercifully, the game went on, and after a few more best-forgotten rounds, finally ended.

Impossible – or at least largely improbable – seemed to be the theme of the weekend though. The party had happened on a Saturday. And the following day – when they were alone (thank God for that) – John blurted out, "I kissed a lot of people yesterday. And I liked you best of all, so I was wondering if you did, too. If you'd like to repeat the experience, I mean."

Sherlock couldn't say no, now, could he? He wasn't _that _mad.


	6. Chapter 6

_Disclaimer: I own nothing. _

_A.N. Trope was First Love. Hope you like this!_

It's always you

For someone whose beloved work entails divesting other people of their secrets – and who, even off the job, too often announces them loudly, no matter the propriety of doing so (or lack of it) – Sherlock is an intensely private man. He's full of secrets, though not of the guilty sort. Strangers have simply no business knowing the true him, and neither do so acquaintances, even long-lasting.

Since John and he have become a couple, he's revealed more and more of himself – just to his lover. John is all too aware of how vast a privilege that is. Now, he knows exactly when and why the relationship with Mycroft went sour, he's private to the whole Redbeard débâcle (Sherlock's words), and he's been told which pirate was Sherlock's favourite during his childhood obsession with the subject.

One lazy morning, he queries, "So, who was your first love? I'm wondering." He'll always be interested in each and every detail regarding Sherlock.

His lover goes red. "Isn't it bad form to talk about past lovers with the current one?" he counters.

"Well...yeah, but first love are too sweet to make people jealous. There's a reason they – well, not just they – are also called puppy love. It may be embarrassing, looking back, I'll give you that, but they're cute. I want to imagine you all cute," John replies, smiling widely.

"Well, you can't," the raven-haired grumbles.

"I'll tell you mine and you'll tell me yours. Sounds fair?" the doctor proposes.

Sherlock nods, defeated. He finds denying John impossible as usual. He just hopes, so very fervently, that John's reaction to what he has to reveal won't be too negative.

"I was about eight years old," John reminisces. "It was an old classic: the girl literally next door. Her name was Fanny, and her auburn ponytail was simply beautiful. I sent her a handmade card on Valentine's day. The only problem was that she was twice my age. She was very nice about it, actually, but God, what a fool I made of myself!"John laughs heartily. "You can't have done much worse than that, can you?"

"I'd say that I've been, if decidedly not wiser in facing the matter, much more lucky. After all, John, _you _are my first love," Sherlock admits.

"What? That can't be true. At the very least, Irene..." the doctor stammers.

"Oh for the love of God, John, you can't still be jealous of Irene! She was almost exactly like me, and even my narcissism doesn't go far enough to actually fall in love with myself," the detective protests.

"If you put it that way...but me? Seriously? Not even one crush as a teenager?" John wonders.

"I know it's abnormal," Sherlock confesses, fidgeting.

"No, it's...fine. _All fine_," the doctor hurries to reassure. "In truth, it's an unexpected honour." It's touching, really. "Let's try to aim for first and last, then?" His voice is light, but the prospect is almost overwhelming in its charm.

The detective rolls his eyes. "That much, John, is obvious." Sherlock Holmes, Johnromantic.


	7. Chapter 7

_Disclaimer: nothing mine._

_A.N. Trope is But why would you like me? Short and probably not too great today, but I'm busy and wrote this in a hurry. Sorry about that. _

Everything

When John declares his feelings – because of course it's John who speaks up first – Sherlock's reply is, "Don't be absurd." After all, it can't be true.

Since Sherlock knows how to properly reject someone (the doctor won't ever forget that awkward first night at Angelo's), John refuses to be daunted, countering in earnest, "I'm being very serious. I'm in love with you."

"Why?"

"What?" the doctor utters, disconcerted.

"Why are you in love with me, John? It should be a simple question."

Being loved should be impossible, Sherlock being the unlikeable, freakish creature that he is, but apparently sometimes the impossible happens, and if he knows what he's been doing right to have this he can ensure to never, ever stop.

Or John will realize that what he's in love with is some fleeting quirk Sherlock can't possibly hope to maintain forever, and the detective will die inside but reject his love because he can't lose him later on, he wouldn't survive it. Better to never have had John then.

"I'm in love with you, Sherlock. Because of everything you are and everything you are not. I'm not in love with your eyes, or your voice, or your brilliance, or that lazy cat impression you do sometimes, though I love all of them. I love your defects, too – and I'm not making a list of these – but they're not why, either. I'm in love with_ you_, and if you can't accept my feelings, at least reject me properly," John demands.

The detective doesn't reply. Instead, he dives for a kiss. Much better.


	8. Chapter 8

_A.N. Prompt is The Yawn and Reach. I have no idea how it became this. And no excuses._

Alternatives

John suffers from the most unique condition. At least that he's aware. Since he keeps his quirk carefully secret – and with his flatmate, that's no mean feat – there's really no way to tell if others are doing the same. He's looked into his problem, even if the theories behind it he can understand only in their more watered down versions, explained in layman terms.

To put it simply, his consciousness keeps universe-hopping. It always happens when he's sleeping, thankfully. He can't imagine – won't – how would it be to be pulled by Sherlock's side while chasing after some armed criminal.

He wonders if, while he's away his body is occupied by the mind of some alternative version of him. He's surely not in a coma, or people would worry, right? How well manage these other him to pretend being the – most of the time still) – doctor-flatmate-blogger-best friend combination (for now)? Nobody has yet told him he's odd yet, but then again, people automatically comparing him to Sherlock might find his quirks too tame to mention. Or think Sherlock finally succeeded in driving him insane.

Some of these realities are, frankly speaking, mindboggling. Like the one where he's some sort of Lovecraftian creature, tentacles wriggling around him until he remembers how to control them. The one where he's a telepath, and gets free access to Sherlock's mind. He helps with the maintenance of it, too, and isn't that a precious gift. The one where Sherlock is some sort of cat hybrid, and he's the proud owner – which is a bit disturbing to think about when he's not there. As every self-respecting cat, Sherlock alternates between ignoring him and demanding his attention, and that – at least – is familiar.

Some of the universes are heartbreaking. The one where Sherlock is a hopeless drug addict. The one where Sherlock is a whore and John hates his own name, though he – all the hopping versions of him, he's sure – are working to correct that one. The universe that truly breaks him apart everytime he wakes in it, though, is the one where Sherlock died to save him. Really died. Because even if playing Lazarus is some sort of hobby Sherlock keeps between dimensions, in that instance John did the bloody post mortem and can assure you there was no trick involved.

Sometimes, when he wakes up, John himself is horribly abused, but he doesn't let these instances ruin him. He's never there for long, after all. He wonders if it's to offer an escape to these versions of him that the whole hopping business started.

In certain dimensions, life is comforting, oddly domestic. These are the reason John misjudges his addiction to adventure and imagines himself eager to settle down. The one where Sherlock is a barista at John's favourite café. The one where Sherlock is a ballet étoile and John a journalist. The one where they teach at the same school.

And, of course, the universes where John is married. To a woman sometimes. Mostly to Mary – though it rarely lasts – or to Caroline, Sarah, Francine...Sometimes he has kids. Sometimes he loses them, no matter what he tries.

John is, wherever he might be, a cuddler. Upon waking, he'll yawn and blindly reach by his side, hoping in this version he's allowed to have someone. To love. The ones (plural; sometimes he thinks this is endgame, and he'll hop around until – with that one, agonizing exception – it'll happen everywhere) where he reaches and finds Sherlock, warm with sleep and love, are without a contest John's favourites.


	9. Chapter 9

_Disclaimer: nothing mine._

_A.N. Prompt is Everyone else can see it. Not too inspired, so 221B trying not to botch it up but probably I will anyway. Sorry. _

Reactions

Most people are scared when coming out to family and friends. Not Sherlock and John. After all, everyone in their life was persuaded that they were together already. Hence, their reactions to it were not what such a declaration usually warranted.

"What do you mean, you're together _now_? What were you doing before?" Angelo wondered, when John requested a candle for the table. The doctor swore the man suffered from selective deafness.

"I really don't know why you'd keep it a secret until now, when it was so evident that you loved each other," Mrs. Hudson cooed.

"Finally! I mean, I'm happy for you two," Greg blurted out, then going promptly red.

Mycroft, despite his view on relationships, had quipped, "You're several weeks late." This irritated Sherlock, because he didn't get the reference, while John's awkward expression clearly said he did, and Mycroft wasn't allowed to have private jokes with his brother's fiancé. He should find his own people for that. Not to mention, Mycroft was excessively smug while receiving the news.

So, really, if they came out to anyone, it was to each other. Because if someone was stupefied by the deepening of their relationship, it was Sherlock. For once, the detective had missed what everyone could have sworn was so painfully obvious. Things were gong backwards.


	10. Chapter 10

_Disclaimer: I own nothing. _

_A.N. Prompt is Train Station Goodbye. Not sure how it became this. _

It's for a case

"You have to leave London," Sherlock announced abruptly.

"What? But we're on a case!" the doctor protested.

"That's why I need you to go. It won't ever end otherwise," the sleuth declared matter-of-factly.

"Are you saying that I'm being a hindrance? Slowing you down?" John wondered, terrified to hear a yes.

"No, John! It'd never happen," Sherlock reassured hastily.

"Then explain."

"I know who the murderer is," the detective stated.

"You do?" John echoed, surprised. Why hadn't Sherlock told anyone yet?

"Yeah, it's clearly Jones. But he's been so careful that Lestrade would be unable to do anything with that knowledge. I have only logic on my side, and a jury of idiots would never take just my word – or the Inspector's, for that matter," the sleuth explained, annoyance showing in every line of his body.

"What do we do, then?" the doctor inquired, eager for action.

"_I_ provoke our killer and play bait. If he's caught for assaulting me, since the reason of his attack would lie in his other crime, maybe we have a chance," Sherlock replied.

"_If _you go through with this – and I'd really rather you didn't – I'm _certainly _not leaving now. I'm not trusting your safety to Greg's squad. What if they are too slow? If something goes pear-shaped? I don't want another flatmate," John declared. He couldn't speak of Sherlock's death, not even as a hypothesis.

"And I promise that you won't need one. But our killer won't make a move if you're around. You've told him of your army past when I sent you to chat with him, and he'll have a healthy fear of you now."

"Well, excuse me if I did. You didn't tell me how I should behave, and he was playing with his father's dogtags. It seemed a reasonable approach. Create some common ground between us, you know," John countered. He didn't want to leave, and didn't appreciate being told it was his own fault he had to in the first place.

"His father beat him regularly," Sherlock revealed, clearly irritated by his friend's blindness.

"How was I supposed to know that?" John protested hotly.

"We're getting sidetracked. I don't want to have a row, John. I only need you to ostensibly leave and make sure Jones knows of your absence, or my plan won't work."

"But why leave London? I mean, can't you provoke him and then we pretend to argue – it won't be hard – so I storm off and return immediately from the back, or something like that?" the doctor proposed.

"If he thinks you might come back at any moment he'll never make a move, John. Especially if he sees you angry. It's obvious. No, we will need to arrange things differently."

John had tried to reason, but there was no way to make Sherlock budge from his decision. And they were doing this to catch a murderer. In the end, they were at Paddington Station, with a large audience.

Their killer was following Sherlock, studying him to plan a move, like they knew he would. Scotland Yard was monitoring the situation. They didn't believe Jones would act in a crowded station, but better safe than sorry. They were so well disguised that John worried maybe they hadn't come, after all. Without telling Sherlock, the doctor had warned Mycroft of the plan, too, and asked him to ensure nothing went wrong, so he assumed at least a couple of the elder Holmes' operatives were around.

"But, John! We're on a case!" Sherlock whined.

John's eye roll was absolutely honest. "_You'_re on a case, and this three days conference will help me with my actual work. I need to keep up to date with the new discoveries in my field. You're a big boy, Sherlock. I'm sure you can take care of yourself." The rehearsed lines still left a bad taste in his mouth.

"Fine then. Go. I'll solve this on my own and not even tell you," the detective replied.

"You know you will. I'll be back soon anyway, no need to pout," John stated, with a put-upon sigh.

"I never do!" Sherlock protested indignantly. Then, more subdued, he added, "Bye, John."

"Bye, Sherlock." The doctor got on the waiting train. The show was at its end.

John would try to get down from his train right then – covertly, of course. Sherlock had asked him to wait until the next station, but he'd try it anyway. In case it wasn't possible without alerting Jones...well, there was Lestrade, and Mycroft. Hopefully that'd be enough to keep his mad flatmate alive.


	11. Chapter 11

_Disclaimer: I own nothing. _

_A.N. Today's prompt is Handcuffed together. Enjoy! _

Getting ideas

It's entirely an accident. John was in a mischievous mood (and let's face it, what he found in the tub earlier called for retribution). Hence why he took one of the pilfered pairs of handcuffs lying around and, when Sherlock slipped into his mind palace trance, he set out to trap the detective.

Apparently the handcuff closing around a wrist is one of the few things that can startle Sherlock out of his palace (thank God for that, actually), and the sleuth's agitated reaction makes the other cuff slip from John's hand and close around the doctor's left wrist.

"Oh, it's just you," Sherlock breathes, utterly relieved.

"Yeah, sorry. It was a stupid prank. But really, Sherlock, jellyfishes?" John replies.

""I think they might have been our murder's weapon," the sleuth explains placidly.

"Jellyfishes able to kill a grown man?" The doctor's voice goes from its usual mix of fond and annoyed to its 'What. Were. You. Thinking," tone of shocked reproach.

"Perhaps," Sherlock agrees.

"We'll tackle that later, mister. As for now, where do you keep the keys? They weren't next to the keys," the doctor queries. Best to discuss the other matter when he's had time to reflect on it, and metabolize the news a bit.

"Why would I have the keys?" the detective counters, as if such a question is entirely legitimate. "I have the handcuffs in case I need to subdue some criminal. And I'm surely not going to release them. Lestrade can take it from there."

"_Oh,_" John blurts out. Sherlock's thought processes make sense, actually, but as usual, they're impossible to predict for a normal human being.

"I might dislocate a thumb to free myself," the sleuth proposes. He probably considers it a perfectly reasonable acceptable idea, too.

"You're not doing that," John orders. "Let's simply text Greg. I wanted you uncomfortable, not hurt." And now John is the one who'll have to bear the embarrass of being caught in his own prank, but who cares?

"Text who?" Sherlock asks. If it's an act, it's growing old.

"Lestrade," the doctor answers anyway.

Of course, the inspector replies with, "Busy. Will come by later." To be honest, Sherlock hasn't mentioned that John is involved in the predicament, and Lestrade is probably laughing at "Accidentally handcuffed. SH" and thinking Sherlock deserves to stew a bit.

So they spend all afternoon tied to each other. It's easier that one would think – they coordinate almost instinctively. Sherlock finds the arrangement surprisingly comfortable, but he has enough sense not to voice it. And John – it might be because it's technically his fault, but he doesn't complain once.

Then Lestrade finally comes with the keys – and goes back without them. Maybe they _should_ train in escapism. Or put the cuffs to some sort of other use. The inspector doesn't need to be involved.


	12. Chapter 12

_Disclaimer: I own nothing._

_A.N. The prompt is The bet/The dare. Apparently yesterday's prompt had some lasting effects. _

Set up to lose

There are things Mycroft Holmes doesn't know about the people working close to him, as heretic as that might sound. But really, not-Anthea's pastimes are nobody's business but her own. She knows her boss; she's careful to plan her appointments in a way that doesn't interfere with her work, or leave hints for him to pick up.

The fact that Irene's brain is almost on par with Mycroft's helps her a lot. The Woman will sometimes reminds her of clues she still needs to erase. Anthea (she likes that name better than her own anyway, so let's stick to it) explained to her mistress that she'd rather keep their sessions private – which is very common – and exactly what powers of observation they need to deal with, after all.

Irene only replied dreamily, "Mmmmh...Sexy," but her work would go down the drain if she didn't respect her clients' need for privacy, so she takes care of the possible clues for Anthea too. She's a responsible mistress who doesn't want to cause problems for her subs. Irene doesn't want to lose Anthea as a client. She's playful and lovely, and God knows her pet needs their sessions to unwind with the kind of job she has.

When Irene ends on Mycroft's radar, Anthea is mightily annoyed. Irene is good at what she does – the best, in fact. Why does Holmes need to bother with her? If Irene wanted to blackmail people, she'd be doing it already. It's not like she lacks the material. But information is power, and Mycroft Holmes is greedy for it. Everything should be under his control. God, it's galling!

Mycroft is calling in his brother (with which Anthea feels like empathizing a lot at the moment), and her mischievous side rears up. She can have fun and warn Irene at the same time, so why shouldn't she?

_I bet you can't_, she texts quickly.

_Can't what? Careful what you say, pet_, her mistress replies.

_Seduce Sherlock Holmes. He'll be coming around soon for your mobile_, Anthea reveals. There.

_It won't be the first shy virgin I've taken to bed_, the Woman counters.

Anthea frowns. How does Irene know that already? Oh, no matter. _I'm pretty sure he's gay, though. ;-) _she challenges.

_The biggest sex organ is the brain, love, remember? Once I wound that up, my tidbits will become inconsequential. You know how easy it is for me, _Irene boasts.

_Of course I know. But I still bet you can't have him. And once you meet him, you'd like to. You will, _Anthea bits back. He's Irene's type, after all.

_What are we betting?_ The Woman inquires.

_If you lose we switch once,_ she daringly texts back.

_Oh my... aren't you audacious, pet. And if you lose? _

_Anything you want, Ma'am, _Anthea offers.

_I think I'll give you a lasting mark. Just the once. You'll be wble to cover it, don't worry, _Irene decides.

Anthea shivered at the prospect. Maybe if she lost – not that she would – it wouldn't be so bad.

_Bet is on then?_ She queries.

_Yes, dear. But in this conversation you've been mostly cheeky. Don't get in the mindset of who's already won,_ the Woman chides.

_Sorry. Mistress_, Anthea apologizes.

Well, mistress for now. Even if the prospect of losing isn't unappealing, she's still certain that she'll win. Not because Sherlock is uninterested in everything that pertains his gorgeous body (such a sin, that), nor because he's gay and she is a – The, sorry – woman.

Because Sherlock is madly in love – no matter how oblivious as all people who should be concerned are to that. If Irene could overcome one John H. Watson's presence in Sherlock's life, she shouldn't be called the Woman anymore. Anthea will propose that she upgrade to the Goddess. It would definitely be well deserved.


	13. Chapter 13

_Disclaimer: I own nothing. _

_A.N. Prompt is Snowed in. No offense meant against Canadian police – Sherlock is just Sherlock. _

Contingency

Somewhere in Canada, 4 december 2018.

"I figured it out. The cannibal must be Hartwood! Come on, John!" Sherlock exclaimed, leaping out of their room. Only to discover they were trapped. It had taken the sleuth a few hours to solve the case, and it had snowed non-stop all the while. It was still snowing, in fact. A veritable blizzard raged outside. The front door of their hotel didn't budge in the least.

The dismayed look on the detective's face was almost comical. "If we exit by a window..." he started.

"The murderer won't go anywhere in this weather, either. I'd rather not trudge in the torment and confront him when we'll be exhausted and frozen stiff," the doctor cut in. Someone had to be sensible.

Sherlock pouted. "What if he has skis and flees on them? Like in that mystery show you forced me to watch the other day?" he countered.

"Text the police if you're so worried. But honestly, why would he be overcome with the urge to run away just now of all times? He's been successful so far."

"Because the locals are incompetent. Which is why I'd like to catch him too. The least they do, the better this will go," the detective declared.

"Sure that you don't want to catch him to have the time to exchange tips about the best preservation of human ears without anyone interfering?" John quipped.

"Don't be ridiculous. I already know that," Sherlock protested indignantly.

What would people think if they overheard the two of them? They'd be calling the police, probably. Luckily in the hall there was only one employee. A fast asleep one, at that.

"Are you positive Hartwood will stay in?" the sleuth whined.

"Yes," the doctor sighed. Anybody would. Hartwood was a psychopath with a taste for human flesh, but he surely had that much common sense. Only Sherlock lacked entirely that feature.

"Then what are we supposed to do until the snowstorm abates?" the detective queried.

"Have a hot chocolate?" John proposed without much hope of his friend agreeing. They were technically on a case until the man was caught. Still it was worth a try. Mycroft wasn't the only Holmes with a sweet tooth.

Sherlock's answering look could have withered a small plant. Oh well.

"Or...hope there's something decent on tv?" the blond added.

"I should be capturing a _serial killer_ now. Do you really think that tv is going to distract me from the fact that the bloody weather says I can't?" the detective replied.

"Play something?" the doctor offered. It was a somehow desperate move, considering the relationship between Sherlock and most games, but this was a desperate time. The next activity listed under 'snowed-in suggestions' in John's brain was cuddling in front of a fire, and he could figure how well that'd be received. Especially with the detective thrumming with unspent energy.

"That might be fine. I'll teach you Deductions, John!" Sherlock uttered enthusiastically.

_Oh joy. _


	14. Chapter 14

_Disclaimer: nothing mine._

_A.N. Prompt is I will find you. Hope you enjoy. _

Counterproductive

It is entirely outrageous that John Watson should be so kidnappable. And that Sherlock is using words that don't even exist in the English language should be an obvious testament to the depth of his upset.

It's bad enough that the doctor often leaves the detective's side willingly. Sherlock can't overly protest, then – not too much – though he'll occasionally make a nuisance of himself. Especially when John's utterly boring girlfriends are the reason for the doctor's desertion.

People daring to remove John from his proper place – right beside Sherlock, always in the corner of his eyes – without either flatmate's consent don't know what they unleash. (Mycroft started that trend. Somehow, Sherlock is sure that it's all his brother's fault.)

It's a drug smuggling ring, this time, to have taken John. It's a warning, they say. Sherlock should drop the case if he doesn't wish for something unsavoury to happen to his innocent friend. Why didn't they take Sherlock instead? He could have run a quality check on their merchandise for them. But no, everyone is irresistibly attracted to John Watson. Sherlock too; he can't blame them too much for that.

These criminals are peculiarly idiotic if they think that kidnapping and threatening John will result in anything less than their destruction. Before, it was work. They've made it personal.

_I hope that you're not afraid, John, _the sleuth thinks._ I will find you soon. I hope you know that I will. I'm not letting them touch you. _

Of course not. Sherlock's overactive imagination is all the spur he needs to solve this in record time. And if instead of being jailed the smugglers – at least the ones that will undoubtedly be guarding John – will end up on a slab for Molly to work on, they will have brought it on themselves. This started because they don't appreciate Sherlock collaborating with the police, right?

Really, how long will it take before the criminal classes of London will understand that one John Hamish Watson, MD, is not to be touched and never –_ ever_ – parted from Sherlock, lest the detective become a wicked threat? He's acting with the most vicious motivator of them all. Don't they see?

Sherlock loves his adrenaline fix, at least as much as the doctor does – which is a lot – but the stab of fear every time John is kidnapped is growing quickly bothersome. He'd really rather go without that, thank you very much.


	15. Chapter 15

_Disclaimer: I own nothing. _

_A.N. Prompt is mistletoe. Today's too hot to write it properly, so I hope you'll forgive me if it makes no sense. _

Evergreen

Out of all the Christmas traditions, mistletoe is without a contest John Watson's favourite.

Sherlock's interest in the plant used to reside in its poisonous properties. He'll always be fond of that case where a smiling old woman used it to kill most of her grandchildren. It was a b. J. (before John) case. Maybe he should recount it to his blogger one of these days.

Since acquiring his flatmate and being forcibly reacquainted with the most common purpose of the plant, the detective has started to loath it. John doesn't need any props to let himself be distracted by this or that woman, nor help in seducing them. All that kissing can't be good for his brain function. The sleuth is only concerned about it for his friend. Honestly.

As far as Christmas greenery goes, Sherlock is much more in tune with the Christmas tree. Their is a Pinus cembra, aka a Swiss pine. The universe can be ironic like that. Not that the detective would agree about it if someone pointed that out.

Mycroft finds his brother's blindness to his own condition beyond sad and not a little shameful, but he knows all too well that nothing good could possibly come out of enlightening him (not just him, at least), so he doesn't.

Years come and go, Christmas and mistletoe with them. John Watson enjoys himself thanks to the parasitic plant. Sherlock scoffs at ordinary people and their uses when he's there to witness it.

Until one day, after all the ordeals Fate and Moriarty heaped on them, John corners Sherlock under the mistletoe he insisted to have in the flat and kisses him silly.

Mistletoe is now Sherlock's favourite in all the Metaphyta.

_P.S. Metaphyta are the land plants._


	16. Chapter 16

_Disclaimer: nothing mine._

_A.N. Prompt is Clothing swap. Since each other's clothes wouldn't fit with John and Sherlock, this is more of a Clothing style swap. I hope it works anyway. _

Mirroring

It all started with Sherlock pilfering John's jumpers to wear them around the flat when the doctor wasn't there. Sentimental reasons, of course. Not that he would admit as much -not even under duress. It went considerably well, until the one time he slipped into his mind palace for some much needed maintenance while wearing one and so John caught him in the act.

Desperate for any excuse, Sherlock mumbled something about being cold. Surprisingly for the detective, John wasn't angry. If anything, Sherlock wearing some sensible clothing instead of looking permanently (when he wasn't in a robe and pyjamas) like a model on holiday pleased him. Maybe a bit too much, too, but John wasn't going to examine the how much – or the why – too closely.

The next logical step was John buying Sherlock a jumper for Christmas. It was a light blue, and maybe it would help Sherlock's eyes decide what colour they wanted to be when they grew up. Not that John said so aloud. It would be embarrassing.

Of course, Sherlock retaliated by dragging John to his tailor to ensure he had at least one fitting piece of clothing. Though John insisted that he didn't want it quite as tight fitting as the ones Sherlock owned, his opinions were apparently not important. John let both Sherlock and the tailor do whatever they pleased, too used to giving into the detective's whims by then. It might not be his style, but to own one fancy suit wasn't such a bad idea, after all. Sherlock paid for it, of course. John wasn't about to get a loan for clothes. He had learned not to worry about the disparity in money between Sherlock and himself, and if Sherlock wanted to offer him something ridiculously expensive, John would just thank him.

Of course, neither of them ever used these gifts. Sherlock only took his as a warning not to get caught anymore, since the consequences were quite ghastly. And John would never feel at ease wearing something that was worth almost more than him, and not even the hottest of dates could make him pick that out of his wardrobe.

Until the day Sherlock received a call from Lestrade about a honest to God locked room murder. The detective, who'd been lounging about in his pyjamas, put the blue jumper on, and when John made to follow him, the sleuth flat out ordered him to get changed into a suit. "The proper one ," he added, so there was no misunderstanding which one Sherlock meant. John protested once, but at his friend's insistence, he complied. God knew what the detective was planning.

Nothing more than a prank, it turned out. Their victim was a scientist, a specialist of the parallel universes theory and similar abstract hypotheses. Lestrade, calling, had groaned that Anderson was speculating that their murderer came from one such parallel universe through a portal and went back the same way.

At their arrival to the crime scene, Donovan had been shocked into speechlessness by their appearance. Her face, though, said loudly, "What. The. Fuck?" If it stopped her from being rude, they might just do this again, keeping it rare enough that she wouldn't get used to it.

Anderson's reaction was much more emphatic. Upon seeing them, the forensic raved, "See? I told you, Lestrade! Now we've slipped into a parallel universe without realizing it, too. Oh fuck. How in hell are we going back home?"

"Shut up, Anderson," John bit back. Instead of adding one of Sherlock's customary jibes, though, he broke character utterly and started giggling uncontrollably.

"Now you've ruined it, John!" Sherlock whined in protest.

"I can't be you anyway," the doctor replied.

"Everyone, stop playing and get to work before I regret calling you children here," Lestrade grumbled.


	17. Chapter 17

_Disclaimer: I own nothing._

_A.N. Prompt is Serenade. Hope you enjoy!_

The heart sings

Sherlock lies. Well, he omits. The violin isn't a meditative prop – or not only, and not even primarily. But the detective can't confess what the instrument is for, because it would mean admitting that he has a heart in the first place, and that it can't be silenced no matter of hard Sherlock tries to get the blasted, noisy thing to quiet down.

At least the violin ensures plausible disallowance of what others read into his music. God knows what would happen if Sherlock blurted out his feelings with actual words anyone could understand. He receives enough abuse for being himself on a regular basis. He doesn't need to be further ridiculed or – even worse – pitied on top of that, thank you very much.

Of course, people who are in hearing range of his concerts with any sort of regularity – Mrs. Hudson, John, but probably even the neighbours – are quick to realize that Sherlock's moods affect heavily his playing (and the quality of it, much to their dismay). But exactly what he's trying to express is always open to interpretation, and likely to be misunderstood.

Not that the sleuth complains about it. Just the opposite. It's his primary aim. And with how often and how loudly Sherlock proclaims that he doesn't feel at all, it's all too natural for them to deduce that, at the very least, he doesn't feel like everyone else. He can be as open – as _obvious_ – as he wants in his music, he'll still remain unread and hence safe.

It helps that the way he expresses things – if not the way he feels them – truly is a bit skewed from the norm. For example, his serenades. Because he loves, as much as that terrifies him, and that feeling has to go somewhere.

These nocturnal love songs, as a rule, are very melodic and overly sentimental. Sherlock's are much more jarring. But he needs to penetrate John's nightmares and put a stop to them. The detective knows all too well what your mind can do when it's acting up against you, and he's not about to let John be a victim of his. After all, John's anguish is simply unacceptable.

Like serenades are meant to do, his playing rouses the object of his affections, so Sherlock can delight in his beloved presence. Granted, John is much grumpier than a traditional serenade should warrant, but once the sleuth allows him to go back to sleep he usually doesn't have any more nightmares. And as much as he scolds Sherlock, the detective can clearly see that John appreciates the company – if not quite to the same degree his mere presence warms Sherlock up.

The love simmering in the detective's chest is satisfied – for the day at least – and won't try to bubble out at inconvenient times and utterly destroy Sherlock's life. All in all, these serenades are a brilliant success.


	18. Chapter 18

_Disclaimer: I own nothing._

_A.N. Prompt is Post-case patch up. I have absolutely no cognition of medicine, so I leave it to your imagination. But I discuss Sherlock's attitude about it. _

On doctors

Sherlock hadn't texted John this time. The doctor was at work, the case was barely a four , and the detective was confident that he could solve it easily on his own. He did, but the criminal was more feisty than he expected the man to be, so the sleuth came back home with a shallow stab wound on his right side for his troubles. Luckily, John's shift had already ended and so he was already there. He would undoubtedly take care of it.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed upon noticing the blood, slight worry and a hint of reproach mixing in his voice. He quickly went to retrieve their much used first aid kit.

"It's nothing," the detective assured. "Still, Lestrade tried to persuade me to have it checked at an A&E. Naturally I didn't. It would be offensive towards you."

"No, it wouldn't be. I assure you that I'd take no offence if you ever went to another doctor," John replied, while working on the wound. "Don't tell me you always make such a fuss whenever someone suggests an hospital in order to spare my feelings."

"Of course not," Sherlock huffed. "But why would I willingly put myself into the hands of someone I don't trust and who knows perfectly well how to hurt me? Especially when I have you?"

"Medical personnel won't hurt you, Sherlock," the doctor countered. He wasn't at Sherlock's disposal 24/7, and this quirk of his could prove dangerous someday. He didn't refute that medics knew how to maximize pain because it was, after all, true.

"Everyone wants to hurt me as soon as I open my mouth," Sherlock pointed out calmly. "For some reason, you've shown considerable restraint about it."

John rolled his eyes. _For some reason. _As if the why was a mystery to Sherlock. He didn't state the obvious – his friend wouldn't appreciate it. Instead, he said, "There. All done. You're lucky, no stitches this time. But you should have texted me about the case. I'd have come with you."

"I didn't think it would be dangerous. Well, not that it was. It took me by surprise, but the attempt with that knife was halfhearted at best. It was pathetically easy to disarm my foe."

"Text me anyway, next time," the doctor replied. _I could have stopped this from happening_ wasn't a feeling he liked. "But really, how did you survive until me with your hate of doctors?"

"Mycroft usually provided someone when I couldn't manage on my own. I knew his men wouldn't hurt me needlessly, at least out of fear of my brother," Sherlock confessed with a grimace that told how little he had cared for such an arrangement.

"So that's why you considered flat sharing with me uh? Needed your very own doctor?" John joked.

"That was a bonus, but I wouldn't agree to it only to secure your services. No, John, I chose you as a flatmate because you're interesting," the detective declared.

"Am I? I thought I was dull," the doctor replied, surprised.

"You're piquant, John. You know that I read people, and most of them are all the same. Endlessly boring. But _you_. Since the start, I saw your contradictions – how you escaped definition. Each time I'd swear that I'd read you thoroughly, you show something I don't expect. You give me a whole new chapter to read. I'll never get your limits, John. You're infinitely engaging. Don't ever let other people tell you the opposite. Not even me. I'll be lying," Sherlock replied fervently.

"That was...unexpected. Thank you," John uttered softly.

"Just the truth." The sleuth shrugged.


	19. Chapter 19

_Disclaimer: I own nothing._

_A.N. Prompt is Sharing an umbrella. Yeah, I know, this needed to be romantic fluff, but...umbrella. Only very minor editing in one of Sherlock's sentences. (Sorry for the error, Lock. I know you'd be angry at me.) Thanks to Old Ping Hai for mentioning it.  
_

In the rain

That silly child – over thirty years old, but still and, Mycroft suspected, forever a child – was going to contract pneumonia. Because of nothing but his own idiocy. But who was mummy going to scold? Mycroft, for not minding his little brother adequately. As always. So he was forced to go get Sherlock before he made himself ill.

Honestly, they lived in Britain. If it wasn't raining, it was about to. Could Sherlock take an umbrella when he went out? Of course not. His drama queen of a brother wandered under the worst downpour of the season without anything to protect himself from the weather. And he wouldn't get into the car with Mycroft on principle. Not to mention that if Mycroft of one of his men simply offered him an umbrella, he'd probably throw it away. Only a thing to do.

"Go away, Mycroft," Sherlock grumbled, when he was suddenly shielded by half of his brother's umbrella.

The eldest linked their arms instead, to physically stop his brother from running away. "Even if you look like a bedraggled cat, they're not going to adopt you," he countered.

"I don't know what you mean," the detective hissed, angry and defensive.

"I'm sure you don't," Mycroft conceded. Then he added, "Getting ill on purpose won't bring him back, either. Or are you trying to prove that saying about idiots never becoming sick?"

"And you? Are you trying to break your personal record on being annoying?" Sherlock bit back. "And you're talking about things you don't know," the sleuth objected.

"He's never taken well to being manipulated, and now he has by his side someone who'll see through these childish ploys of yours," the elder Holmes remarked quietly, not deigning Sherlock's taunts of an answer.

"It's not a ploy!" the youngest of the two protested. "I simply couldn't remain cooped inside anymore," he confessed morosely.

"That I believe. But you should at least try to take care of yourself, Sherlock. I swear, you enjoy it when people worry over you."

the detective didn't reply, only quickened his pace. There was no way to explain that it was because it proved that people cared about him, and survive with his dignity intact. Besides, Mycroft surely knew.

"You can't outrun your feelings, 'Lock," Mycroft remarked softly.

_Well, I'm certainly going to try, _the sleuth thought. "I have no feelings," he replied automatically.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Tell that to someone who hasn't had ample evidence of the contrary. You need to manage them, brother mine. Preferably without hurting yourself."

"Preferably?" Sherlock echoed with a raised eyebrow.

"I know your talent for self-destruction, Sherlock, but at least try," the eldest sighed. _For him if not for me _went unsaid, but was heard all the same.

"I'll...think about it. Leave the umbrella if you aren't glued to it and get on that car who's been following us since the start. By the way, it's creepy."

"Fine." It wasn't much – it probably wouldn't be enough – but it was a start.


	20. Chapter 20

_Disclaimer: Nothing mine._

_A.N. Prompt is Drunk snogging. Which of course means the obligatory stag night redo. (Sorry about the lack of sex. Let's say John doesn't want their first time to be while drunk.)_

How it should have gone

Sherlock doesn't drink, as a rule. It dulls the mind, lowers his already sometimes spotty self-control, and – above all – makes lying impossible. His ability to pretend that he has no feelings is his saving grace, and he's not about to get drunk and let all these unsightly emotions into the open.

Until he does, because John appointed him as his best man (_friend_, and isn't this mindboggling), which means – among other daunting tasks – that Sherlock has to organize the stag do, and no such event can happen without abundant alcohol consumption. They're already forgoing the presence of other friends and/or strippers as it is, and everything should be perfect for John.

Molly's help in planning hasn't been all that useful, and now they're back home (no, at 221B, that's not John's home anymore – and it's heartbreaking), immersed in a pleasant drunken haze and playing ridiculous games that Sherlock should win just by looking at John. But the alcohol turned off any deductive power he possesses, and there's no reading his friend's mind at a glance.

Playing is fine, actually, because at least it should stop the detective from blurting out what circles his mind all the bloody time. It gives him something to concentrate on beyond John's mere, overwhelmingly good presence.

Until John slides off his seat, and to right himself he holds onto Sherlock's knee. And he says, "I don't mind," and maybe drunkenness made _John_ a mind reader, because that was going through Sherlock's head. _Very nice_ and_ I don't mind_ and _please don't take that away. _

John does, regrettably, let him go soon after, but his equilibrium must be more compromised than it should be, because he utterly fails in regaining his chair. Instead, gravity inexorably tugs him down, making him fall on Sherlock (again). This time, their lips touch, and then things kind of snowball from there.

Sherlock gasps into the kiss, and his hands instinctively come up to hold desperately onto John, lest he try to move away. Not that it seems probable, since he's deepened the kiss and is currently snogging his detective like there's no tomorrow. And wouldn't that be perfect? No tomorrow?

Finally, completely breathless, they are forced to part – though John's still kind of leaning into him. "Why didn't we do this before?" the doctor wonders, dazed.

"You didn't want to," Sherlock replies, pouting a little. "John, please," he adds, without even knowing what he's asking for. All he gets is another quick kiss. "Please, love," the drunken detective whines.

"Love?" John echoes, shocked.

"Please," Sherlock insists, already regretting letting it slip.

"Oh no. You answer me now. Do you love me? I mean, love-love me?" John demands. He sounds like a teenager, but who cares?

"It doesn't matter," Sherlock grumbles.

"_It does_," John declares, and the teenager left to be replaced with Captain Watson, who won't be denied an answer, dammit!

"_Obviously _I love-love you, John. Lots and lots," the detective confesses, annoyed at being forced to say it out loud. But John doesn't love him, and if he doesn't hold onto the anger he might cry, and that won't do.

"Typical. Just typical of you," John replies, and he sounds miffed too, and why would he? He has everything he wants – and Sherlock too, in the bargain. And what is typical about Sherlock falling in love? "Couldn't tell me before? What, were you waiting to object tomorrow? Not enough dramatic for you otherwise?" the doctor seethes.

"No objections," Sherlock uttered, uncomprehending.

"Then I will," John announces. "You love me. I love you. You always come first. It's simple. Mary... I should have warned her before. That's all I'm saying."

"You love me?" Sherlock echoed, disbelieving.

John kissed him again, infinitely tender. " ' Course. That's not lust, idiot."

Maybe Sherlock had slipped in a drunken sleep and dreamt it all up. Surely he had. This was impossible, after all. "Don't _ever _wake me up," he pleaded.

"Going to; not telling her alone tomorrow," John muttered against his skin.


	21. Chapter 21

Disclaimer: nothing mine.  
A.N. Prompt is Everybody loves bad boys. Another teenlock. Enjoy!

Exception

General consensus says that Sherlock is a wicked creature, and will end up even worse. Probably as a serial killer, since he likes them so much. They have plenty of evidence, after all. At sixteen years old, he smokes and sometimes dabbles in more dangerous drugs. He's rude all the time, and he has perfected pickpocketing to almost an art form. Hell, while other steal menial things, he's taken a skull from the local morgue, and if that isn't a sign of psychopathy, what else is?  
Despite his utter evilness, or perhaps because of it – well, he supposes his outward appearance has some part in that, too – everyone wants in his pants. Not that he lets them, he's not interested, but if he wanted to he could have someone new in bed every week.  
There's Molly, who probably dreams of redeeming him, but is much more likely to be corrupted by him if only he decided to put any sort of effort in doing so.  
Irene, who has seduced everyone else in town already – or is close to it – and simply can't fathom why Sherlock would resist her.  
Jim, who treats everything like a game, and insists that Sherlock and he could have such a great fun together. Billy too, his regular dealer, tries to persuade him to exchange the finest of cocaine for favours of a sexual nature, but not even that can entice Sherlock into bed (or alley) with him. And she'd obviously deny it to her death, but Sally – who's always so angry at him, as if she wished to tear him up – is covering with anger for an entirely different set of wants.  
There's a single, luminous exception to all that. John Hamish Watson. No matter what Sherlock does, John stubbornly refuses to despair of Sherlock. To believe that being by the taller boy's side will only drag him down, involve him in Sherlock's inevitable ruin. (Even Sherlock worries about that, sometimes. Usually after meeting his elder brother.) Much to the raven-haired's annoyance John is the exception even to the common desire for Sherlock's body, never mind the hints to the contrary that sometimes he seems to exhibit (his lip-licking is enough to drive Sherlock to distraction).  
Trusting that and other clues, Sherlock even tried to flat out ask him to go on a date, and John refused to acknowledge even the possibility of such an idea, thinking his friend was joking. Sherlock, obviously, backpedaled with all the grace he could muster. What else was he supposed to do? The last thing he wants is for John to decide that since Sherlock yearns for him, they can't be friends anymore. But God, it hurts to want only one person in the whole world – to love only one (Sherlock needs to admit if only to himself that he's fallen, and fallen hard) – and know that he's the only one of your acquaintances that wouldn't dream to touch you beyond a friendly hug. To be forced to see him dating an endless string of people who are all wrong because they aren't you. Things are as they should be, though, so Sherlock can't complain. He doesn't deserve John anyway. 


	22. Chapter 22

_Disclaimer: nothing mine. _

_A.N. Prompt is Voice kink. Third time in my life I write porn. I'm mightily unsure. Please tell me what you think of it. But by God, did I love researching Cumberbatch's audio files. Thank you. _

Experimenting

John Watson, for all his widely recognized sexual prowess, wouldn't say that he had particular kinks. As many other of his beliefs, this one needed to be reevaluated after meeting Sherlock. He'd undeniably developed a huge voice kink for his lover's words. John felt that he could be forgiven, because Sherlock's sexy growls definitely deserved to have poetry written about them. And better than what John could offer (he'd tried), with its disjointed images of melted honey, silk sheets and large wild cats.

John had admitted, once, that Sherlock could probably talk him to orgasm. That idea had stuck into the detective's brain, and now they were aiming for that. John naked on the bed and Sherlock on a chair, determined to talk him to orgasm _with no other stimulation whatsoever_. John was going to die.

"It won't work," he tried a last time.

"The brain is the biggest sex organ, John," the detective countered. "And I promise, if it doesn't work I'll let you get off by whatever means you wish." _But I'll be so disappointed _went unsaid, but was clearly read on his countenance.

"_My _John," the sleuth rumbled possessively.

The moment Sherlock's voice dropped, John's cock started to rise to the occasion.

"You're so good to me. Even when I'm mad. I love you_ so much_, John."

The doctor's heart swelled at the deep affection in his tone, as always. It wasn't the only part of him.

"The things I want to do to you, John. All the time. I want to taste you. To kiss you, lick every inch of your skin, suck your nipples."

Said nipples hardened, getting interested. John groaned deeply, then uttered, "Feel free to." It wouldn't work, but it was worth a shot. His cock was hard as steel now.

"You think I'm tormenting you, but I'm torturing myself too, love. Here you are, every perfect inch of you, so near and yet so very far. I need to touch you, John. Can you feel my touch? Caressing your shoulders, your chest, lingering on your heart. Can you feel me plucking your nipples, trailing tenderly down your sides?"

John's eyes had slipped closed, and God help him, but but he could. He felt Sherlock's ghostly touches. This was insane. He moaned helplessly.

"I want to kiss your thighs. Let me, John, _please._"

As if it was _John_ who didn't want to be touched. "Do it," the blond ordered, rutting against the air in despair. He needed true friction, damnit! He was so close already. He could feel the orgasm looming on the horizon. If only he could have _something... _He ached to, but he didn't touch himself. He wasn't going to cheat Sherlock out of this. "Please, Sherlock...I need..." he begged.

"I know." The detective's voice was strained with desire.

"_Feel me,_ John. I'm kissing your thighs. My tongue is laving the underside of your cock. My lips around your head. I'm _hungry_, John. Let me taste you," Sherlock growled.

A fractured groan left John's lips. "I need..." he repeated.

"Give it to me," Sherlock commanded. "Come _now, _John. _For me._"

It should have been impossible, John would have sworn that it was impossible, but then he was coming with a shout, _drowning _in an orgasm like a storm. Still, "We're not doing this again," he declared as soon as he came down from it.

"Seconded. It _hurts _not touching you."


	23. Chapter 23

Disclaimer: I don't own nothing.  
A.N. Prompt was Under the table. Not sure how it turned like this.

Pet

It's from the start, with Sally's ill-thought and – frankly – gratuitously offensive, "Did he follow you home?" that people liken me to Sherlock's pet. Moriarty is just the latest of them. What they want to imply is, of course, that Sherlock will sooner or later get bored of me and abandon me on a highway, should I ever prove myself a hindrance.  
They don't seem to realize that they're wrong on many accounts. For one, I'm sure that if he took the responsibility of a pet, Sherlock would never abandon it. And if people think he would, it just proves that they don't understand him at all. Sherlock doesn't throw away free affection like that. Secondly, if one of us is the other's pet at all, then Sherlock is decidedly mine. One of the feline kind, obviously. Let's look at the evidence, shall we?  
Senses sharpest than these of us normal humans, check. He denies that, but he does see things nobody else does. Great stealth, check. I swear, he makes no noise at all moving unless he means to, and he has already startled me a few times. Needing someone to keep him fed, triple check. I still don't understand how he can forgo eating like he does. Ignoring you one moment – usually when you need him for something – and then suddenly demanding your attention? Yes. I'm not even annoyed anymore. It's his nature.  
Damaging the furniture and the flat when not adequately entertained? Our walls can attest to that – and you should see our kitchen table after all the experiments he's conducted on it. Maybe I should use one of these repellent sprays so he lets it alone? Making messes that his human needs to pick up after? Well, I've certainly never seen him even attempt to straighten up the flat after that halfhearted effort the very first day. Spending hours curled up somewhere and then hunting some prey down? I shouldn't even need to mention it.  
So you see, when we are at a crime scene and he gets on all fours and crawls under the table to sniff at the food bowl of our victim's cat (I have no idea what he's noticed, or why one would position said items in such an inconvenient place), if I'm hard pressed not to laugh, I have my reasons. I grin – I really can't help it – and thank God that Sherlock is too concentrated on the puzzle before him to observe what I'm doing. Having to explain myself would be a nightmare, and I don't wish to hurt his feelings. (Yes, it's possible. Of course it's possible. Shame on you if you objected just now.) 


	24. Chapter 24

_Disclaimer: nothing mine._

_A.N. Prompt was Two-person love triangle. I wrote something that does not fit it before doing the proper research (I might publish it in July as a bonus if people want). _

Conundrum

John loves Sherlock. It's obvious enough. He loves him despite his abrasiveness, his laziness, and all the other faults – too many to recount, but that the sleuth knows all too well – that make him insufferable to most of the human population for more than five minutes.

John loves his brilliance. He loves the danger being by Sherlock's side always provides in spades. (Sherlock recognizes addiction when he sees it, and he's not reluctant to be John's dealer.) He loves the detective in a funny hat that he's had so great a part in creating, even though he doesn't realize it entirely.

Whether John diagnoses it as Asperger, gets angry at it, or kindly takes upon himself to remind him, "_Timing, _Sherlock," his sociopathic I-have-no-emotions-I-just-fake-them-sometimes persona is never questioned. Well, only that time with miss Adler, but that Sherlock would be in love with Irene is entirely preposterous.

John came first, after all. Sherlock – much to his chagrin – has all the emotional range of any human being (and something more, he suspects sometimes). What he absolutely lacks is the ability to deal with them in any way. It's either repression or 2 AM violin concertos, when there's no one to hear him. Well, he wakes John up like that more often than not, but he's too annoyed to notice how Sherlock's heart is being played out.

Sadly for him, Sherlock is absolutely, completely besotted with his flatmate. Why would it be sad since, as we've already established, John loves him too?

Because John loves Sherlock, or at least the Sherlock he knows, the Sherlock who is his quirky, annoying, danger-prone detective. And that, of course, is what Sherlock is. A big part of him. But not all.

And there's no way John could love the all. That he wouldn't mind Sherlock being clingy, trying to cuddle all the time like he knows he'd want to (he has so long without to make up for). He gets annoyed if Sherlock texts too often, for God's sake.

That he wouldn't be disgusted by the wealth of too soft feelings Sherlock would depose at his feet like an offering to a God. John is fire, and he'd burn him and leave nothing behind – or so the sleuth fears.

And above all, there's no way that John wouldn't loathe Sherlock if anything (he likes to think proper retirement, but they'll never last that long – hell, _he _probably won't) stopped them from taking cases. Contrarily to common misconceptions, Sherlock doesn't live for the work, though he loves it. He could envision a different life, a more peaceful life. But John does, he fools himself into believing he wants to "settle down" but he'd hate it in a week. Sherlock is always so restless about cases because he _needs _them – to keep John tied to him; occupied; happy.

So John loves Sherlock, and Sherlock loves John, but he can't allow himself to show it. Because he needs to be enough for John, and that is harsh work, one Sherlock fails at anyway – in part. But in love Sherlock, trapped behind the sociopath, has no hope to even begin to qualify for it.


	25. Chapter 25

_Disclaimer: nothing mine._

_A.N. Prompt is Office romance. AU, journalist!lock. I feel like I cheated, but I had no idea what to write today._

In a different world

It made perfect sense for Mycroft to create a newspaper once his brother had expressed an interest in such a career. Anything to ensure that he didn't fall back to drugs. After all, who else would have endured Sherlock's presence for long? Sherlock, contrary as always, had resisted working for him at the beginning, but in the end he'd had no choice. And Mycroft let him work on his beloved crime news. Every time someone got killed in an interesting way, Sherlock _had to _pester the police about it. Of course, Sherlock would do a better job than the yarders – hell, Mycroft would have too (not that he wanted to) – so he was a bit justified if he made a nuisance of himself.

Then one day, out of the blue, Sherlock had declared that they needed a website in this day and age and told him that he knew who Mycroft should hire for that. He'd expected a young geekish boy, and seen almost the opposite. Now, as a rule, Mycroft didn't take on charity cases beyond his brother. But Sherlock wanted this John Watson very much, and as always, Mycroft had caved in.

It was a blessing. John – Mycroft discovered – didn't mind his brother's attitude overly much. He was probably the only man on the planet who did, too. He still got fed up with Sherlock sometimes – John was only human – but it was soon evident that his little brother had, for once in his life, found a friend. Ensuring that they spent all their working hours close together seemed the least that Mycroft could do. Especially since he'd not done anything to stop his little brother from letting his work swallow his life almost entirely. Now Sherlock had a reason to smile beyond triple murder.

It surprised no one – least of all Mycroft – when their friendship deepened and changed into a full bloomed love. When coffee and laughs, serial killers and updating became interspersed with kisses and hot whispers. (Mycroft needed to have a talk with his brother about the proper place for trysts, or at the very least cleaning up after himself, but he blushed only at the thought of having such a conversation with Sherlock.)

But no matter Sherlock's questionable initiatives. It was the first time in decades that Mycroft saw his brother deeply, emphatically happy. Sherlock didn't have just a work now, courtesy of Mycroft. He was starting to have a life now, one he fit in. Mycroft's permanent worry abated a little. A slow website and the occasional misuse of office stationery were so worth his little brother's blissfulness.


	26. Chapter 26

Disclaimer: nothing mine. A.N. Prompt is Shut me up with a kiss. Plot is stolen from a tumblr post I can't find now. So I did very little. Sherlock's point of view. Enjoy!

Birds of prey

Things between us had started to change – or so I discovered. Not that we'd exactly discussed it yet, but there had been that one instance. A post-case glorious kiss. That I chalked up to adrenaline and maybe momentary insanity at the time. After all, it couldn't be anything else after John's vehement and frequent protestations of not being interested in me. Not that it was surprising; if anything, it was his friendship towards me that was an unexplainable mystery. Hence I considered the event a fluke. One I knew I'd never ever delete, but one I tried to don't think about – with little success, I must admit. Then it suddenly became apparent that John had taken my enthusiasm the time before as a clue that he'd be welcome to kiss me again. And he was, but when I saw him come towards me with a grin that wasn't his dangerous you-better-run-for-cover smile, but still looked frankly predatory, and a little lick to his lips that telegraphed the intention to kiss me again, I still panicked. My own experience was sorely lacking, and while nobody had complained in the past instance, I had none of the hormones running through me last time to boost my confidence and was wondering in just how many ways I could botch this. In an effort to distract and deter him, I started relaying at top speed the lecture I'd had to deliver while undercover at a university during the case that had led to our first kiss. "Did you know, John? In the XVth century, each rank of nobility was associated with a particular bird of prey, and men of lesser rank were forbidden to use it for falconry. The emperor had golden eagles, the kings gyrfalcons, the princes a certain kind of female peregrine falcons, while the counts had regular, males exemplars of the same species – weird this, that the females should rank higher, but..."  
Now John was decidedly in my personal space. Which had never been a problem, but he usually wasn't intent on kissing me. Not that I could even begin to consider moving away. I felt trapped by his gaze, a thin ring of blue around the enlarged pupil. His smile softened a bit, and he informed me, "Sherlock, you're rambling."  
I thought for a moment that I had succeeded. "...if we take into account the sexual dimorphism of the species..." I continued for good measure. Then John shut me up. With his much dreaded kiss. The lecture and everything else fell away from my mind. Why had I even been so scared? I fear that I moaned into the kiss, but it might have been him. 


	27. Chapter 27

_Disclaimer: I own nothing. _

_A.N. Prompt is Covert pervert, which I probably fail utterly at. Sorry. Probably makes no sense at all. Quote from memory, so it might be incorrect._

Assumptions

Out of the two of them, it's usually John who utters some double entendre – naturally. The, "You, ripping my clothes out..." comes immediately to mind. After all, Sherlock has a reputation to hold. Not that he cares much for Mycroft's shy virgin jibes. But the body is just transport, its needs irrelevant.

Letting John know that he's as much of a hot-blooded human being as anyone else isn't safe. Because it risks to reopen that first day's line of enquiry. Or bring to the forefront of his mind things that he can't allow to let slip. It would be a nightmare if he accidentally revealed notions like, "You're my sexual fantasy, John."

That, Sherlock suspects, would be more than a bit not good. And he absolutely doesn't want John to decide that he should move out because he's subjected to unwanted attentions.

It's surprising, though, the amount of things he can get away with without making John suspect the detective's interest in him. (John can be a bit of an idiot sometimes).

He can admit that he surfs porn sites on John's pc, and the doctor will think Sherlock is doing so for science – or a case. Which is partially true, because he needs to check John's favourite porn for clues that he might not be as not-gay as he always proclaims so loudly. Sadly, he still hasn't found anything conclusive.

He can take his favourite pair of handcuffs and offer to show John a trick or two, and his friend will – correctly, of course – assume that he's meant to be trained in escapism.

Since that horribly failed attempt at asking John out on a date, when his – as of then only – flatmate /colleague thought that Sherlock didn't even know the definition of the word, Sherlock has not tried anything so overt, always leaving himself a chance to interpret it as something else when he tried flirting, hoping against hope that John would be receptive to it. And since then, John has flatly refused to recognize the coyness in his occasional statements.

It's impossible, after all, that sex jokes, or flirtations might come from the sociopath, unless he's trying to manipulate someone, right? Sherlock is a virgin. Or more probably asexual. Or anyway, he doesn't think about sex. That's the assumptions John is working under, clearly.

If Sherlock ever finds in John's porn the evidence he's seeking that his advances might not be merely disgusting to his friend, how is he even meant to make him understand how badly he's wanted?


	28. Chapter 28

_Disclaimer: I own nothing._

_A.N. Prompt is Glad-to-be-alive Sex. I can only say sorry, but today I wasn't exactly in the mood. Rant at me if you find this off-putting. _

God bless idiots

They face another bomb a mere week later having finally declared their feelings for one another. Again, it doesn't explode. Not for lack of trying – there was no off-switch this time, and they really thought they were done for. But the people who built it aren't Moriarty, nor professionals, clearly.

The Yard will take it apart and see what went wrong (well, right) but right now there's no calling Greg or thinking about hunting down the bloody idiots who put it together. There's only John's lips already on his own (that's how they want to die. Problem?) and deep, bone sagging relief. They slid to the floor, lips locked together.

"We're alive," John utters in amazement, once the breathlessness forces them to come up for air. Sherlock doesn't even scold him for stating the obvious. He only tries to recapture John's lips.

"Home," his lover declares, "before we defile a crime scene," then he willingly gives in the detective's ardent kiss.

Defiling a crime scene sounds actually very good, but they lack the necessities, so Sherlock only locks it up in the fantasy room and they go back home.

They won't ever be able to forget a cabbie's existence, so instead of losing himself in more kisses as they'd like, they simply sit plastered to one another, hands entwined, the other's weight and heat enough of a reminder that they've survived tonight too for now.

At home, it's more heated kisses right on the inside of the door, rutting against one another just to feel him there, warm and solid and alive. A broken moan, and John orders, groaning, "Home. Bed." If Mrs. Hudson comes to greet them, things will be beyond awkward. Facing the stairs as some sort of four-legged creature is a bit of a challenge, but neither is willing to give up contact. They're too greedy for each other to break apart, hands roving and clutching at every step.

And then it's finally the flat, _home _and _safe _and nothing can stop them anymore. They've won, they're surprisingly alive, they love each other, and these three heady feelings mix inextricably in a single, all powerful urge to touch and taste and fuck.

They never make it to the bed. There's a wall, and lube under the sofa, where it rolled yesterday, and that's more than enough. There's not the usual sweetness, or careful teasing – they're too keyed up for that. Just clothes shed in a hurry, needy whines and broken moans. It's very soon and yet too long before Sherlock can finally have John inside him, where he should be. Neither of them will last long, but it's not a concern for now. They come screaming each other's name, and that's all they needed. After, they slid to the floor, again, and laugh, high on oxytocine and serotonine.

Later, thinking back on the events of the evening, John will remark, "We need to stop almost dying. Someone might get it right next time."

Sherlock only makes a vague noise. Now it's not the moment to point out how much they both literally love it. With the consequences it now has, it's more likely that he'll be more eager for life or death situations than ever.


	29. Chapter 29

_Disclaimer: I own nothing. _

_A.N. Prompt is Ferris Wheel date. No idea how it turned out like this. And I've never been on a ferris wheel, so no idea if put too much dialogue in. Maybe Mycroft slowed it down for them?;-)_

_Oh, and I didn't slack off yesterday. No prompt came out. Accidents happen. As it is, tomorrow there'll be another one. (And then a magical realism bit I wrote by mistake for Two-person love triangle? Anyone interested in that?) _

A proper date

When they finally become a couple in every sense you can give to the word, Sherlock is the happiest he's ever been in his life. But – there's a but – the most terrified, too. Because now he has something to lose, and not necessarily by this or that criminal's hand. He could drive away John all on his own. After all, alienating people is undoubtedly one of his many talents. It's true that things that make normal people run from him only seem to endear him to John – even the ones that frustrate him at the same time.

Still, he needs to make sure that all of John's needs are met. To prove that he can, at least occasionally, be a proper boyfriend who behaves normally, if not too romantically (there are limits to his abilities, after all). That he can conceive of dates who don't entail body parts, or being shot at. (Cases definitely count as dates: having fun with the person you love, right? What else are they?)

Which brings them here, at Sherlock's behest. Here being not quite a movie and dinner – as I said, there are limits – but a leisurely stroll on the Embankment and then a ride on the London Eye.

When they get to the upmost point, John kisses him square on the mouth. "I know what you're doing, love," he says then.

"Is it working?" Sherlock replies, a bit shakily.

"Don't get me wrong, Sherlock, this is lovely, thank you very much, but you don't need to."

"I do," the detective counters stubbornly.

"You don't need to do things you normally wouldn't because we're together," John states. His voice is gentle, but his tone serious.

"I need you," the sleuth admits simply, unable to voice properly all his objections – all the reasons not to be himself, at least not 24/7.

"And you _have me. _You'll always have me, even without classic dates or Valentine day's cards or any of these things I know you scoff at inside even when you're willing to playact for my sake. I need you as my partner just as much, Sherlock, if not more. I thought it was obvious."

"Are you sure, John?" the detective queries. That can't be right, after all; he needs his beloved _so much. _

"Positive." The doctor cements his answer with another kiss.

Just then, the ferris wheel brings them back to land. They hadn't even noticed.

"Come on, let's get home," John urges. "If we're lucky, we'll find at least a five on the website. I fancy a _proper date_ with you."

Sherlock can only grin in response, his heart soaring higher than the stars. That little ferris wheel – higher in Europe or not – simply can't compare.


	30. Chapter 30

_Disclaimer: nothing mine._

_A.N. Last prompt is It's not you, it's my enemies. Post-Hiatus AU as in Mary doesn't exist and John and Sherlock are a couple (or back to being a couple if your headcanon has properly together pre Reichenbach). _

The plan

"I don't like it either, but I need you to forsake me, John. Loudly, publicly, and if at all possible dramatically," Sherlock blurts out one evening.

"You're not making a lick of sense, love," the doctor objects. If Sherlock wanted to seriously break up with him, he wouldn't say such a premise, or word things like that.

Sherlock lets out his the whole world is so _slow _huff, and points out, "Moriarty is back."

"Well aware, thank you," John replies evenly.

"Don't treat it like it's nothing," the detective orders, suddenly angry.

"Of course it's not nothing. But we're going to fight him, and _win. _We aren't going to let him run away this time," his lover counters.

"No, John. There's no we when Moriarty is concerned. If you don't forsake me, I'll be the one to break up with you," Sherlock declares vehemently.

"Don't be ridiculous. You don't want to," John says firmly.

"Of course I don't want to. I'll never want to, but I need to, if I am to have a fighting chance," the sleuth shouts in frustration.

"Are you saying that I'm a _hindrance_?" the blond queries. That can't possibly be true, is it?  
"I'm saying that he has targeted you twice in the past already, and that I need you out of the crosshairs. This is not some petty murderer we're facing. He's _evil_, John. And mad. And he knows that once he makes you a target I'll be his puppet. I'll do – _I've done _anything to keep you safe, John."

Jim had known that since before Sherlock himself realized exactly to which lengths he'd go for John Watson, or why. Sherlock had really been incredibly blind to his own feelings.

"You're scared," John replies, suddenly realizing the problem. He squeezes comfortingly his lover's hand.

"Scared is too mild a word," the detective admits. "I'm terrified, John. Terrified that he'll kill you and not me. I'm not strong like you, John. I wouldn't survive if you died. And if you died because of me, because Moriarty wants to see me broken, because..."

John kisses him. Sherlock is working himself into a panic attackand that can't be allowed. "I won't die," he says then, his voice strong with conviction.

"You can't promise that," the sleuth protests sullenly. "That's why I need you to make known that you hate me now. Maybe he'll accept it and decide that it's not worth it threatening you anymore."

The doctor sighs. "He's not an idiot Sherlock. It would never work. I mean, I took you back after you faked your death for years. And now I suddenly don't want anything to do with you anymore? Why? Because you snore?" he snorts.

"I don't snore."

"That's beside the point, love. What I'm trying to say is that we love each other toomuch for me to truly consider ever abandoning you, and honestly I think that it's all too terribly obvious. I don't think Moriarty will be convinced by a little show. If we separate, you'll only obtain that I'll be worried over you all the time, and distressed is not the mental state I want to be in with a threat looming over us."

"How do I protect you then, John?" the detective queries, sounding lost.

"You concentrate on solving the case as usual, love. We're not alone. We have Mycroft and his resources, and the whole of Scotland Yard if need be. We have your homeless friends. I have my training. It should be enough for me to do the errands without a problem," John replies jokingly. But what he's saying is very serious, and he hopes that Sherlock acknowledges it. He doesn't need to face Moriarty alone.

"But you need to stop getting into any black car. Mycroft has ruined your instincts," Sherlock whines.

"Fine, love. And you need to promise to keep me reasonably in the loop. I can't help you otherwise, and I want to...no, I need to, really."

"I promise."

And John kisses him again.


	31. Chapter 31

_Disclaimer: I own nothing, for the last time._

_A.N. One day late – I got lazy – but here is the wrong two-person love triangle bit, which has nothing at all to do with the relative trope. A magical realism snippet to manage mathematical impossibilities. Enjoy!_

...And the heart makes three

It's all Mycroft's fault. It's always Mycroft's fault. And I'm going to murder him some day. That's what happens when you have an overprotective brother gifted with magical capabilities of high caliber since a young age with a skewed vision of what constitutes a weakness.

It's pure torment, this stalemate in which we're caught. The problem is that I'm not Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, as many of you will have surmised. I'm his heart, which Mycroft deftly removed decades ago and trapped. Where, you ask? In his little brother's most prized possession, aptly. I'm his heart, but I'm his violin, too – well, I reside in it.

Which is so clever a choice of Mycroft. He gave me a way of expression – I'd wither without it – but no way to make myself be clearly understood. And how I ache for that. For words that would allow me to clear the air from the awful misunderstanding that has not only me, but all occupants of 221B in a miserable state.

There's John, wonderful John, that for some unexplainable reason loves my detective – the bigger part of me – faults and all, even broken like he is. It's, frankly, obvious. But brain-Sherlock has been robbed of the ability to reciprocate properly. He appreciates John's presence – likes it as much as he's allowed to – but sentiment is out of his league. He'll never mention anything, he certainly doesn't want John to move away. Sherlock simply _can't_ love John, because of Mycroft's bloody meddling, and it almost breaks me.

I heard John, once, grumbling that Sherlock only loved his bloody violin – and he wasn't entirely wrong with that. Not that Brainy is so very narcissistic as to fall in love with himself. But the yearning for me I know he experiences sometimes, that knowledge that you would forever be incomplete if separated from your other half – that's as close to love brain-Sherlock can get, and it's only _logical _that he experiences it towards me. He has every reason to "love" me as much as he can – and he does.

And me, you ask? Sherlock Holmes' utterly mistreated heart? Of course I'm in love with John Hamish Watson. Always been, since before meeting him in this wooden body, when the connection with Brainy sent along knowledge of him. John is, quite simply, perfect for me. Obviously. I do my best, waking him up from nightmares and lulling him back into an easier sleep, singing his favourites tunes, but that's too little to make myself known. And John doesn't know about the situation, so there's no way he would realize. He just assumes Sherlock is uninterested.

I'm going to _murder _Mycroft. But first, I need him to put me back into my rightful body. Sherlock Holmes, whole, so he can wholly give himself to one John Hamish Watson. Either that happens or I'm going to die in my cage.


End file.
